Time for a Trim
by amygdala36
Summary: A short bit of fluff based on Sorey's hair description in game.


"How long is this going to take anyway?"

Sorey reluctantly remains seated, somehow managing to be firmly pressed against the back of the chair, yet at the same time look as if he was sitting on the edge, poised to take flight. His hands are gripping his pants tightly, but his left knee bounces around erratically like a cage of pent up energy.

"Well, you should have let me do this earlier," Mikleo grumbles, letting his irritation get the better of him. Sorey's discomfort at being tied to a single spot for an extended period of time eats at his own carefully monitored disposition.

Sorey's hair is now reaching a difficult length. It tickles his ears and cascades into his eyelashes, obstructing his vision,but it is not yet long enough to pull back into a tie for convenience's sake.

"I know, I know" Sorey sighs, defeated and apologetic. "I'm sorry keep putting this off. I know you'd rather be out exploring, too."

"Good, then next time you'll let me take care of this earlier," Mikleo declares confidently as retrieves the shears and gives them a couple of experimental cinches. The shears respond with metallic snip, short and clean, suggesting a sharp edge.

"Sorry," Sorey mumbles, for the umpteenth time. They have this conversation every month, but it never seems to change.

Now in addition to his impatient bounce, an air of penitence settles over Sorey's shoulders.

The negative air, however, dissolves almost instantly upon Mikleo setting his fingertips into Sorey's hair. Sorey melts into the touch, sighing contentedly at the massage of his scalp.

It was always a struggle to get Sorey to stop moving long enough to trim his hair. The contrast of submission as soon as chore began was astounding to see.

Mikleo lets the hairs glide through his grasp as he gets a feel for the difference in length from the last trim he had forced upon Sorey. The split ends slip through his grip, tilting his displeasure further with each strand he touched. He frowns at them. This should have been taken care of weeks ago.

Then Mikleo leaves his hands to it. They move precisely and efficiently, pruning away the bits of coarse hair. A snip here, a snip there, the hair falls away to Sorey's neck. Sorey, to his credit, only flinches slightly at the sensation, but otherwise remains statuesque. The strands tickle his ears and collar like feathers pressed to his skin.

Mikleo holds a cloth in his other hand. With this, he gently pushes the stranded hairs off Sorey's skin, wiping it clean as he cuts.

Everything that isn't _Sorey_ is cut away. The coarseness trimmed away leaves a halo of downy, brown hair. It's already flaring up, almost seemingly against gravity. Sorey's hair is predictably wild and unnameable, but at the same time it is also gentle and orderly.

To finish the process, Mikleo moves methodologically in front of Sorey to reach his bangs. He leans down slightly, but notes with slight displeasure that he's had to lean down less and less every year. He brings up the shears again to Sorey's forehead, focusing on the crucial part of the cut.

But then Sorey's eyes briefly capture his own, and he is frozen.

The green orbs in front of him hold him there like incorporeal chains. Sorey's expression is uncharacteristically serious, bleeding with faint traces of unfathomable emotions.

Sorey moves his hand slowly, cautiously, to Mikleo's neck, as if tending to a skittish animal. Mikleo feels the skin under the touch burn, heat from all over his body migrating to reach the point of focus.

A moment's hesitation, a flicker of uncertainty, and then Sorey pulls him forward, pressing their lips together.

It's only a slight brush, but the sensation is immediately electric, a pulse from the skin down his fingertips. An involuntary sigh escapes Mikleo's breathe and Sorey instantly pulls him close, pressing them together again.

Sorey's pressure is instant and suffocating. Mikleo feels himself naturally giving and _needing_ into this force. He melts into the embrace, his thighs on either side pressing into Sorey's sharp hipbones. Another soft sigh escapes his lips as he feels Sorey's tongue experimentally press against his bottom lip.

And then all at once, Mikleo remembers himself, the tension erupting. He pushes himself away, cheeks aflame and breathe heaving. His embarrassment creeps along his skin like cobwebs.

Sorey blinks at Mikleo a few times. He looks puzzled and disappointed, as if he'd just dropped a snack.

He licks his lips deliberately, savoring the taste.

"If we can do that next time too, I'll make sure to be on time for my haircut," he beams proudly.

Mikleo heaves the cloth in his left hand at Sorey's face, and stomps off, leaving his clueless Shepard behind.


End file.
